


A Midnight Hour Comes

by periwinklepromise



Series: Ladies of Marvel Bingo [2]
Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Abduction, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/F, Handcuffs, Natasha Whump, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, POV Natasha Romanov, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 17:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20970212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periwinklepromise/pseuds/periwinklepromise
Summary: This could go very well or simply horrendously.Since Natasha is currently completely immobilized, she admits the latter is more likely.





	A Midnight Hour Comes

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the Mighty Avengers, after Civil War
> 
> Written for the Whumptober prompt Shackled and my Ladies of Marvel Bingo, square O5: Nipple Play

When she wakes, her mind is fuzzy and she can't feel her fingers. Natasha is more concerned with the first than the second.

Then it takes considerable effort to actually open her eyes, and she becomes far more concerned. 

Single bright light above her. Hard surface below her. She's shackled or chained or … something. Hands up above her head, feet down and far away. 

Wherever she is, she needs to escape. But she's not sure where she is or who has her or … what day it is … and **fuck**, her head hurts. 

She tries to flex her fingers into a fist. She's pretty sure she manages to make one twitch. 

A door heaves open and closed, from somewhere behind her. The light stays steady. 

“Natalia,” someone croons. It echoes.

**Fuck.** She tries to turn her head to the voice, but she's still groggy, and her face lists to her left. A person stands there, pale, fully clothed. Natasha squints. A woman, with long dark hair and cruel eyes. Her face is distorted. Nat tries to respond to the formal version of her name, the only one the Red Room ever called her, but she only manages a groan. Fuck. She can't move, can't think, can't speak. And she's shackled to a slab in a room with a woman who does not appear friendly. 

“Thank you for making time in your busy schedule for me,” the woman said, and her voice sounded oddly familiar, but Natasha couldn't place it. Light, almost flirty. “My name is Giuletta. I've heard a lot about you.”

Darkness tries to take her back down to unconsciousness, but she forces it back. She needs to stay awake. She groans again with the effort, tries to lift her shoulder up.

The woman tuts. “Now, now, Natalia. You're not going anywhere. We have much to discuss.”

Natasha loses her grip on being awake, and falls back to oblivion.

*

She wakes again to cold water on her face, sputters and spits to clear her airways. Her head is more clear now, and she takes stock of the room: concrete walls; no windows, vents, or doors in sight; one light shining down on her, proximity implying the source is a lamp hanging from the ceiling. There must be a drain somewhere on the floor, to rid the room of the water they have splashed on her. Then she takes stock of herself: mind mostly clear, but there is still a film over it; assorted aches and pains; a few bruised ribs, but no broken bones; and unlined shackles at her wrists, hips, and ankles, holding her out in a loose cross on probably a seventy degree incline. The room is colder than the normal range of comfort, but she prefers that to being overheated. She wears a thin paper gown.

She tugs at the shackles. There is a clang and a rattle. So a short chain connects the shackles at her hands, from the under the metal slab on which she is bound, she is not shackled directly to the front of the slab, which she would have preferred. She did not feel a reciprocating tightness on the other restraints, but they could still be connected. She needs more information.

The woman who steps quietly into view is the best source for any information Natasha needs. The way she moves, Nat has seen it before, a certain confidence.

“Hello, Natalia.”

That's right, her captor calls her Natalia.

“Forgive me, I do not recall your name.”

The woman smiles, quiet and cold. “Giuletta. Giuletta Nefaria.”

_Nefaria._ One of the Five Families. Acclaimed pursuer of Stark technology. And Giuletta, she was the daughter of the late Count. As Whitney Frost or as Krissy Longfellow, she had attempted to get her hands on Stark's best through various combination of LMDs, seduction, and incendiary devices. As the Big M, Giuletta had created multiple clones and killed them, mostly for currently unknown reasons. According to most recent intelligence, Giuletta Nefaria is also Madame Masque.

This could go very well or simply horrendously. 

Since she is currently completely immobilized, she admits the latter is more likely. 

Natasha has been out of this game too long. Ever since she joined the reconstituted Avengers, she's been staying stateside, doing the barest of reconnaissance, barely doing anything, really, beyond basic team duties. She had been keeping her nose down after the Registration. 

Or trying to, at least. 

Maybe they could convince Robby to come get her out of here. Carol probably would. It would help if they know where _here_ is, of course.

Giuletta moves closer. “So you have heard of me, then.”

“Hasn't everyone?” she tests, probing at her desire for grandeur.

Giuletta smiles brokenly and slips a finger along her cheek. 

A chill runs through her. Not the right path to take. But she's accustomed to this woman wearing a mask of solid gold and slinging bullets at her. Flattery regarding reputation is not the right tack for a woman with paranoia. 

“Many have,” Giuletta agrees. “But not as many as those who have heard of you.”

This is unfortunately true. Natasha was right to have been pro-registration, but she had not become a superhero because she desired fame; she had scores to settle, wrongs to make right. She still does.

“I've heard you were trained in the Red Room,” she continues.

Natasha is not surprised. Those who know Russian naming systems, those who know to refer back to Natalia for her, these are people who know about the Red Room and what it does. 

The shackles. Giuletta's calm touch. They take new meaning. 

Natasha takes in a breath as subtly as she can. It will not be useful to dissociate here. She must stay aware, must try to use this as an opportunity to free herself. 

Giuletta pinches a nipple through the paper and twists. She watches Nat's face, but she does not gasp, does not flinch. Giuletta bares her teeth.

Nat does not flinch when Giuletta cups her vulva or slides paper into her slit. Nat does not shiver when she moves to her breasts, bounces them one at a time. She clenches her jaw, lets her eyes go steely. Sexual assault is nothing new, and yes, it is easier if there is a mission objective, but the objective to survive is the strongest Natasha has ever known.

Giuletta clearly deliberates then moves both hands to Natasha's breasts. Squeezes them tight like a vice, and someone should remind this woman that her mask isn't on, so her arousal is obvious. Her eyes glint from the lamp. Then she focuses on rolling her nipples, and Nat must still be exhausted because she shifts against the shackles, and Giuletta's eyes brighten. 

She rolls them longer, slower, thumbs warm through the paper gown. It really is cold in here. That's what Natasha will think about, the temperature. But she also thinks of other hands on her, hands she wanted, hands she didn't.

“You're very good,” Giuletta croons.

_I wish I could say the same,_ Natasha thinks, but she's no fool, she will not goad her. Madame Masque would not take kindly to it. 

Instead, she calls up those few moments in her life where she felt mortified, _the time she ever failed at her mission … Clint walking away from her and not turning back …_ and she feels the red rush up to her cheeks. There, that's what she needs. She moves her eyes away from Giuletta and mutters bitterly, “I know,” and waits.

Giuletta moves her face back to force the eye contact. “Do not misunderstand me, Natalia. I do not mean your ability to stay quiet. Plenty of people can withstand a grope or two. But the way you _feel_ under me,” she stops to bite Nat's bottom lip, and she decides to refrain from biting back, “It's beautiful.”

Natasha scoffs and rolls her eyes, but she shifts again. Down near her hips, she wriggles then stops abruptly like she's ashamed. Reputation wasn't the way to go for Giuletta, but prowess could work, if she's careful enough. 

Giuletta hums. “Oh, is that it? You want to _impress_ people, Natalia? Be a _good_ little girl for me?”

Natasha bites her lip and tenses her toes. “No,” she bites out with a small lift at the end, like she's whining, like she's lying.

“Oh, I think you do,” Giuletta argues, and she runs her palms up Nat's sides and her thumbs over Nat's nipples again, nipples that are starting to tighten to attention. She leans in close and breaths hot in her ear, “I think you're a good little girl.” 

The temperature difference is enough to get the reaction Nat needs, but she shivers all the same, and goose flesh erupts along her skin, and she inhales quickly and bites it off by pressing her lips firmly together. She lets Giuletta see.

Giuletta wants the intimacy. It's why she gave her real name, why she doesn't have the mask on, but she also needs the control. She wants to be able to move Nat around like a doll, and kill her afterwards so no one knows what makes her tick. 

The control is easy to give; Nat is shackled to a slab, with no obvious way out. The intimacy, well, Nat has faked this a thousand times before. 

“You like that, don't you?”

Nat moves her eyes away again. The nicest thing about the current method is Nat doesn't actually mind the focus on her nipples. If the conditions are right, Nat can come from that easily enough. Right now, she cannot afford that luxury. 

Giuletta starts teasing her, starts toying with her, and Nat relaxes into it, lets her body shift as it wants, arches her back up into Giuletta's hands and tugs at the restraints before flattening again and pouting. It is easy enough to pretend she wants this. 

Then Giuletta tears open the paper to roll her nipples between teeth, taste with hot tongue, and the moan Natasha gives is real, the roll of her back is real. The way she pants when Giuletta stops is not, but they both know this will never be real. 

She sees the hunger in Giuletta's eyes when she glances back to her. Maybe only Nat knows this will never be real. 

**Fuck.**


End file.
